


Photographs of a Squib

by DolbyDigital



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bill Weasley - Freeform, Denial, Dominique Weasley - Freeform, Fleur Delacour - Freeform, Gen, Louis Weasley - Freeform, Victoire Weasley - Freeform, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolbyDigital/pseuds/DolbyDigital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's not easy to admit the truth to yourself, even if it's obvious for everyone else to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photographs of a Squib

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by maggalina over on FFN, who also came up with the awesome title. Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Round Thirteen.

She watched her sister with the kind of awe that only a young child could really possess as they both sat cross-legged under the kitchen table. Her sister was concentrating – concentrating so hard that she thought she might burst with it – and the plate of cookies Grandma had left was slowly floating towards them, wobbling slightly with each juddering movement forward.

Their mother walked in when the plate had nearly reached them – breaking Victoire’s concentration – and the plate of cookies fell to the floor with a loud crash in the otherwise quiet house, porcelain and cookies scattering across the faded linoleum. She looked on with wide eyes, fully expecting their mother to start yelling – and her sister thought the same if her terrified expression was anything to go by.

Instead, she had let out a sound of pure joy – not as happy as Dominique had been at the prospect of cookies, but close enough – and rushed over to her eldest child heedless of the mess she was treading in. The china crunched under her feet, and Dominique winced as the cookies were flattened into the cracks of the floor.

Louis was put in his highchair as their mother pulled Vic into her arms and over to the fireplace, throwing in the powder that made the flames turn a pretty green colour. She wasn’t really interested in who her mother was talking to or what they were talking about, her attention was solely focussed on her Grandma’s crushed cookies and the loose circle of crumbs mixed with chinaware.

She couldn’t eat those now.

 

* * *

 

 

She was playing in the back garden of the Burrow; they were all visiting Grandma for the holidays and the older children were building a snow fort. In her opinion it was the best snow fort ever. It was taller than Lily and sparkling silver where the sun hit it. They had _mountains_ of snowballs piled up behind the shelter of their wall and they were preparing to attack.

Grandma had asked them to de-gnome the garden, but she’d never told them _how_ they should be doing it. The younger cousins were all inside, sitting warm by the fire. She’d been jealous at first, until they’d come up with The Plan. It was a great plan. It was not a very well thought out plan, but it had the potential to be _amazing_.

Her gloves were wet and her scarf had been long abandoned – it kept getting caught under her knees when she crawled and she couldn’t afford distractions. It didn’t matter that her ears and nose were numb, or that her fingers wouldn’t bend properly. They were on a mission.

She spared a quick glance at the window to check that none of the adults were watching them. They were all focussed on the snow falling over their heads. She did a double take. The scene didn’t change.

They were still seated in the living room on the battered old sofa and chairs, staring up at the ceiling. The snow was cascading down around them, already forming fluffy white drifts around the walls. And in the centre of it all? Her little brother. Laughing as the snow fell on his upturned face; his nose and cheeks red with the cold and his hair and clothes slightly damp and covered in the large white flakes of snow.

Well, he had been upset that he couldn’t de-gnome the garden with them. He loved the snow.

 

* * *

 

 

Her parents were sitting at the kitchen table talking in hushed tones. They didn’t know she was there – she was supposed to be in bed – but she needed a glass of water and she’d been _really_ quiet just in case they were still awake. She couldn’t really hear what they were saying – only the occasional word – but she didn’t want to risk getting any closer in case they saw her. And her mother looked pretty angry.

Her daddy seemed to be trying to calm her down, though, which was good. If Daddy was mad then that meant that she was in serious trouble. Her daddy wasn’t mad often, but when he was it was terrifying.

They were using a lot of hand gestures, though. Hand gestures very rarely equalled good in her house. Hand gestures meant that words weren’t enough to show how you felt, so that meant her mother was _very_ angry. And she didn’t know why. But she heard her name, and a lot of long words that she didn’t understand. And magic and...

Maybe she didn’t need that glass of water after all, she told herself, trying to will away the burning sting from her eyes.

 

* * *

 

There was a tapping at the window, the sound of claws scraping against glass grating on her nerves this early in the morning. Normally she liked it when the post arrived, but last night her sister had kept her awake until the early hours of the morning with her inability to stay still. She really wished they didn’t have to share a bedroom.

She glared at the owl, hoping that maybe through sheer will alone it would turn around and fly back to wherever it had come from. Its beady eyes watched her unblinkingly as it ruffled its tawny feathers in annoyance. She stared back, refusing to lose in this battle of wills.

Both girl and bird’s attention was grabbed, however, by the loud scream that preceded a flash of shiny blonde. Victoire flung the window open, narrowly avoiding hitting the startled owl and letting the irritated creature hop onto her arm.

With shaking hands Victoire untied the heavy envelope attached to the bird’s leg, letting the string fall to the floor. The owl hopped onto the table and started pecking at her bowl of cereal; no amount of arm flapping or shooing noises would deter it.

Vaguely, she noted that her sister had run out of the room and up the stairs – probably to go wake their parents – but she was more concerned with wrestling her spoon from the owl’s sharp beak.

 

* * *

 

The summer after her eleventh birthday she sat by the window early every morning waiting for the owl to arrive. She hoped it wasn’t the same one as before; she still had scars from that encounter. But they were fading, and her Aunty Hermione had made her fingernail grow back.

She ignored the looks her mother was giving her from across the table, refusing to admit that she had seen pity in her eyes. There was still time for her letter to arrive; it wasn’t quite the end of August yet and sometimes letters got lost.

It wouldn’t leave her much time to buy everything she would need, but that was okay. She just wanted her letter to arrive.

* * *

 

She clung to her dad’s hand as they stood saying their goodbyes on the platform. She was holding the brand new owl, making sure to keep her fingers as far away from its nasty little beak as possible. She wasn’t making that mistake twice.

Her mother was crying, but somehow she still managed to look beautiful and composed. When she cried her entire face turned red and she always had so much snot and made these really _horrible_ noises. Her mother and sister looked pretty when they cried, big eyes wet and shiny and no snot in sight.

She smiled tightly and handed the owl over to her sister, taking a step back and watched as she boarded the train from the shelter of her dad’s arm. She would succumb to the burning in her eyes and throat later.

When she was alone in their bedroom.


End file.
